If I Should Die
by JHWforever
Summary: "I attend the funeral. I don't want to. I wish our parents were here to 'represent the family'. I hate this black suit. I hate the food. I hate the people saying 'I'm sorry for your loss'. They aren't sorry. Not really. Not as much."


"Were you but lying cold and dead,

And lights were paling out of the West,

You would come hither, and bend your head,

And I would lay my head on your breast;

And you would murmur tender words,

Forgiving me, because you were dead."

-W. B. Yeats

I don't move when the phone rings. Yet my body tenses. Although we are expecting the call, John looks at me sharply, eyebrows furrowed, asking a silent 'are you going to be okay?' I don't answer. I don't need to answer. John understands.

He croaks a hello. His tapping foot halts. Lips purse. Grip on the phone tightens before he disconnects. He swallows saliva. He looks at me again. The sharpness is replaced by sympathy.

I know it's happened.

"Sherlock!" He calls after me. He tries to catch up but I'm faster. I bang the door of my bedroom. I hear him sigh. I don't lock the door but he doesn't come in. He leaves me unaccompanied. He knows I need to be alone.

I don't pace. My feet find the bed. My brain is ceased. Something that happens only when I'm high. I don't like it anymore.

'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.' Mycroft's words play in my numb brain.

I don't cry. I can't cry.

"Are you-"

"I'm okay."

"Can I get you-"

"I want to see him."

"Sher-"

"I want to see him."

"You know you can't. Try to under-"

"NO, YOU UNDERSTAND, JOHN. HE IS MY BROTHER."

I don't say 'was'. John doesn't correct. He doesn't comment on my sudden brotherly compassion, either.

He stares and stares. But I know what he's going to say. "I'll see what I can do."

I see him lying on the slab. 'He is only sleeping,' my mother had said when Redbeard had died. It was easier to believe then. It's hard to believe now.

His corpse is cold and white. Like all others. For the first time, I don't want to touch a corpse. I fear he'll wake up and remark snidely on my show of sentiment and win 'The Battle of Wits' we had started long ago. I don't remember when. But must be sometime around when he left for uni. Never thought I would want to relive those moments of persuasion and blackmail. Just once. For the last time.

His body is pearl white. Like a Holmes is supposed to have. His belly is quite a lot flattened. I mentally complement his efforts.

I poke my finger in his ribcage. I know he is ticklish there. He doesn't move. I am disappointed.

He leaves me his house in his will. I never liked it. I wonder if it's one of his remaining ways to torture me. John makes me sign the papers. I vow never to visit the place.

John never leaves my side. Looks at me as if I'm made of some delicate glass. Waits for me to break down so he can console me. He likes to take care of people. Of me. I would have let him if the situation was different.

John says I don't talk much these days. I don't feel like talking these days. John worries about me. Thinks this is as a repeat of Irene Adler Episode. It's not. She wasn't actually dead. But Mycroft is.

I attend the funeral. I don't want to. I wish our parents were here to 'represent the family'. I hate this black suit. I hate the food. I hate the people saying 'I'm sorry for your loss'. They aren't sorry. Not really. Not as much. I hate him looking at me from the family photo we had taken all those ages ago. He was heftier back then. He is gripping my shoulder tightly as I show him the fish I had caught from the pond. He is smiling at the camera. I am smiling at him.

People look at me expectantly when it's time for the eulogies. I stare back. John doesn't force me. But he keeps looking at me every 10 seconds on an average. To see if I'm okay. Whenever our eyes meet, I allow of a tentative smile.

People talk about him. About his sudden death. How his heart failed him. Their talk is all senseless and useless. Sentimental. I wonder if the sentiment is even true. Our cousin tells a story from our childhood. It's manipulated and wronged and sugarcoated. She has forgotten what actually had happened. 'I'm living in a world of goldfish,' he said once. Yes, I agree.

It's an open casket service. The Goldfishes go to his casket. Say a few words. Touch it and return. Some dab at their eyes. I wonder who these people are and why they're displaying their sentiment when there's no use of it anymore. Most of them wear a little frown on their face. But no one touches him. They are repulsed by him. By his corpse. I don't understand why.

I see John standing by him after the crowd has dispersed. He says something to the body inside and looks at me. He smiles. John is talking about me. His eyes are little damp at the corners but he isn't crying. He looks back at the casket and continues. I watch him. John isn't faking whatever he's saying. It's comforting.

People start filing out. John stays by my side. Accepts condolences. I don't bother listening to their worthless emotion.

Caterers start cleaning the area. I keep my dish in my hand. I slowly walk to the casket. I know John is making everybody leave the room. He knows I need to be alone with him.

He looks paler than I saw him in the morgue. Makeup on his face is wearing out by the corner of his mouth. He doesn't look like Mycroft.

I tenderly lower my dish of chocolate dessert to his chest.

"Enjoy the feast, brother mine."


End file.
